Ha sof

A chapter closes, a chapter begins.

I'm back at http://run-erin-run.blogspot.com/.

The decision.

I had a bomb dropped on me two weeks ago.

I know, from someone living in Israel that is probably a bad choice of words, because it could actually be taken literally.

But, no, even worse – my world has been turned upside down and backwards and inside out by hearing the person I was prepared to spend the rest of my life with tell me he’s not happy, he doesn’t think we’re working, and that we should think about separating.

I have run the gamut of analysis and blaming and trying to figure out how this happened. Did we have problems? Of course – in my last post I even mentioned them. But now, what it comes down to is my reality of working on them and improving things and evolving together as a couple has been shattered by someone else’s unwillingness to do any of those things. This reality of mine was apparently an illusion. Or, maybe, a one-sided mirror, as I could only see what I was doing and missed out on the fact that he was not willing to make us work.

Believe me, I could spend the better part of a lifetime explaining and analyzing and trying to figure this one out. But, in the end, I cannot make someone want to work on a relationship if they are unwilling to. I cannot give someone love that doesn’t adjust and change and evolve with life. I cannot guarantee someone happily-ever-after when he doesn’t think there is some sort of work involved now and then. That there are phases; ups and downs. He basically made the decision – without me – and as much as it hurts, I have to put myself back in the drivers seat, as my mom says. Except I feel like I'm driving in a Britain, all backwards and on the wrong side of the road.

So, in addition to all that sucks about a break-up, I have the added twist of being in Israel. So, over the last few days, almost a week, I have been processing my options. At first, of course, I couldn’t even think about making any kind of decision because I was too busy trying to figure out the magic words to say to make him realize the error of his ways. Eventually, I started to let thoughts about myself enter into my cloudy brain. And, little by little, things are becoming clearer.

I didn’t automatically think to jump on the next plane. Well, maybe I did, but the destinations varied from the US to wherever the next plane was going. Surprise me; just get me out of here.

But then, after a while, I realized that I wouldn’t automatically be miserable staying here. In fact, quite the opposite. I have an amazing support system with the people in my lab and the other friends I’ve made here. I could, technically, stay here and rearrange my life and be perfectly fine. I know people looking for roommates; I have offers from dear friends for spare rooms in their homes. I am eligible to renew my visa and continue my postdoc. After all the bureaucratic blah blah I’ve had to deal with since being here, changing my bank account and phone and moving suddenly seem like small hurdles if I really wanted to start over here.

But would I be happy? Would I be staying here just to prove that I could? Out of spite? On top of that, all my current fears about being stuck in this postdoc indefinitely even though it’s not something I want to keep doing – fears I was having anyway – wouldn’t go away with all this life readjustment.

So, all that considered, I really want to return to the States. It was in this vein that I made the terribly difficult phone call to Mr. Boss, who is currently on sabbatical and out of the country. He threw a wrench into things, by making me the hugely generous offer of letting me return for a long vacation (in his mind that's 2 weeks, but never mind), keep my postdoc and salary, so if I can look for jobs while I still have a position (and of course continue my work in the lab). Tempting, because I know it's risky to wrap up now. And, of course, professionally speaking, it would be worth my while to stay, have more publications wrapped up, and not leave so suddenly. I’m sure in his mind, he doesn’t see what my rush is to leave when I don’t have anything “better” lined up already in the States. Actually, more than just not seeing, he thinks I’m making a terrible mistake (“throwing my future in the garbage” was, I believe, the phrase used).

Except that a-I wanted to leave the postdoc, anyway, even if I stayed, so it's not exactly motivation for me to stay and "finish," whatever that means (although Mr. Boss doesn't know that, although I did tell him I was wanting to move into editing/writing. I also did not tell him I could be happy doing a whole list of things that had nothing to do with my Ph.D., but again, never mind); b-looking for jobs in the States while living in Israel? Um, no thanks; c-there is an as-yet unpublished manuscript involved, but worse case I get moved to second author if another student has to do reviewer-mandated revisions after I'm gone. For what I want to do (non-academic science, whatever that means), I’m not sure it really matters; d-it would mean arranging an apartment, visa, etc for a temporary return; e-I would still be stuck in a postdoc I don't want anymore for an indeterminate amount of time - who knows how long this manuscript will be bumped around? Who knows how long a job search would take? How many times would that mean me going back and forth between the States for job interviews and moving and everything? Mr. Boss cannot understand the need for a mental health break – rehab, if you will – without any obligation or pressure to return back here or to make a desperate decision about my next job. I think he'll be fine, and I know I'll have a good recommendation from him and his support no matter what - and I guess at the end I don't really need him to understand, I just want him to be able to discuss with me how to best leave things here, even if he doesn't agree with my decision.

I have parents helping me out with a move back and giving me a crash pad in the States. I have amazing friends and family who I miss dearly on whose couches I can surf across the US (especially in NYC, which pulls at my heart-strings anyway). I'm under no delusion that I can stay unemployed indefinitely. But, I don't even know where I want to be, what I want to be doing. The basic fact is, I need time. And maybe, also closure. I have the chance to make a decision completely selfishly, completely based on what I think will make me the most happy, and I want to get to the point where I can make that decision. Staying here with vague obligations and feeling stuck will not get me there.

...and on a personal note:

Writer’s block? Maybe. Life block? Maybe that, too. For whatever reason, finding the motivation to write and post here has been at an all-time low. Life feels like kind of a mess right now, and for someone who likes everything in order, I don’t like to see that in writing. It’s like an admission I’m not perfect.

Yes, I know, get over myself.

So, I could say something cliché like “life is at a crossroads right now” to explain my spinning head and not-unhappy-but-not-happy current state. However, that whole ‘crossroads’ analogy implies there are three distinct options from which to choose: left, straight, right.

(As an aside, whenever I hear that phrase, I picture one of those intersections in the middle of bumblefuck Western US, with four dirt roads meeting, no street signs, flat desert landscape, tumbleweeds, and the decision-maker is of course driving a pickup. I’d like to claim this visual as my own, but it was probably in a movie.)

Anyway, my crossroads right now seem more like blindly stepping into the darkness, not really knowing the direction, not knowing if the first step will be solid ground beneath me, wishing I could just jump over the first step and land somewhere down the path, happy and fulfilled and not wondering all the time.

I am trying to be better at being happy in the moment, instead of always trying to get to whatever’s next. Pretty much my whole life, I’ve had some idea of what the next step would be. The high school-college-grad school path is not particularly thought-provoking, and there was security in knowing there was a line between Point A and Point B, which would lead to Point C. I could assert my independence by extending that line to far-off places.

Even the initial move to Israel, despite the picture of romance and adventure, was really just an extension of the same line. Making the decision of course wasn’t done overnight, but once I did, things were pretty well mapped out. I found a postdoc, I had somewhere to live, I’d start learning the language, Ron and I would be together; while everything that comes with living in a new country was challenging at best, there was still an order and a line through it all.

So now what? I’m unhappy being a scientist. I want to write and/or edit, but there are no scientific journals in Israel. I have a student visa, so I’m not eligible to work here even if I did find a job. My Hebrew is improving but not to the point where I could work in the language. Ron and I are dealing with a changing relationship – the excitement of falling in love in NYC, the struggles of being apart, the bliss of finally being back together has now entered “boring everyday life” phase.

I could go on and on (and when I do, I usually end up in some state of anxiety/tears/depression/overwhelmed, so I won’t). The basic point is: there is no more line. You would think that this would make me feel completely free and liberated, to be able to do whatever I want, but it doesn’t. Instead, the best way for me to describe my current situation: stuck. As if every way I want to try to make the first step into the darkness is blocked. The problem is, I think, is that every step I’ve thought to take has not actually been so far from the line. Whatever I do next will be making up my own line. I need to now think completely outside the box, find creativity, and make up my next move.

So, what’s a girl to do? If I am blocked in my attempts to make big steps, I guess I try half steps? Big step: quitting my postdoc for a job based in Israel and hope they can sponsor a work visa. Half-step: starting the application procedure for a resident visa. So, that doesn’t get me un-stuck from my postdoc, but at least it will remove a block in my path. It would give me the option to start doing freelance work, anyway, if I decide to quit without having a physical job lined up.

Big step: trying to establish myself as a freelance science editor. Half-step: sending my CV to online editing firms, working with them for a bit until I move from my postdoc, figuring out what it entails, and then maybe doing it on my own here in Israel, if it’s something I still like doing. Again, not exactly a career-changer, but it gives me the chance to develop my skills and something to think about other than my postdoc.

Big step: incorporating my love for running, fitness, nutrition that has always been an important part of my life and a hobby into “what I do.” Half step: well, that’s a good question. I’ve started talking to people I know who are personal trainers, fitness buffs, etc. I could see myself doing one-on-one sessions with clients (not working for a gym), setting up a fitness blog based on science, all basically on the side (a “don’t give up your day job” sort of arrangement). We’ll see. I thought maybe also to try to start a women’s beginner running group – basically to advertise to some of the online forums in Jerusalem, meet once a week in the park without really much of a plan, just a comfortable group to run/walk with other women without any embarrassment about being newbies.

So is putting all this in writing admitting that I am lost and need help? Maybe. And I’m not good at that. But it’s the one big step I know I can take right now, and that feels good.

Why running is like life. Or vice versa.

Ok, yes this is an old cliché and totally not original, but if these thoughts have been bouncing around in my head on runs, I must get them out! Call it an exercise in jazzing up a tired metaphor.

There are easy parts: where you’re coasting along and feeling great like you could go on forever. No effort required - your legs and lungs and heart are a well-oiled machine.

And then, bam: a stone trips you up. Your left foot trips you up. You didn’t even see it coming, but you’re down. Hopefully it’s minor, and after hopping on one foot and then the other to assess the damage, with some light self-swearing for being a clutz, you’re off again, with maybe a nice bloody elbow or bruised knee to prove your hardcore-ness.

Sometimes it’s serious, and you have to stop. But you haven’t really stopped, you’re just in healing-phase instead of running-phase, and it will still build you into a better runner, just less obviously-so. The hardest part is to be smart enough to know when to leave the healing phase and enter back into the running phase: not too soon but not too late.

Sometimes the obstacle is much greater than a rock or a rogue left foot. Sometimes something impassable is in front of you – a fallen tree, a wall, the edge of a cliff perhaps. You stop, wondering where to go, because you’ve come to far to turn around and go back. So you go around. Sometimes that means going seemingly sideways for miles, but it’s better than going backwards. Soon you’ll be able to cross to the other side and keep moving confidently forward.

A hill is not one of these obstacles, no matter how big and scary it seems at the bottom. In this case, no change of direction is needed. Just a deep breath, good form, small steps, and the humility to move at a slower pace than what you’re used to on flat ground. In really dire circumstances, throw the form part out of the window, and just put your head down and use brute force to get to the top.

Don’t anticipate the hills that may be in the future, they will only cause you to seize up and slow down in the present, before it’s time.

Sometimes you move through familiar territory, where you know every turn and every step. While you can make great pace here, it is easy to coast without assessing how you feel. On the other hand, sometimes you find yourself in strange neighborhoods, senses heightened but pace lowered. Even if you feel slightly lost, you usually can sense the general direction you want to be going. Maybe you won’t get there in the most efficient way, but just having your wits about you to know more or less where you are will get you there.

Sometimes it feels like everything is going wrong – there’s a storm, the wind is moving in circles and always in your face, your shoes keep coming untied, and you just feel like sitting to let it all pass over you. Running through the storm is a much more exhilarating way to get out of it than to sit and passively let it roll by.

It’s fun to get caught up in all the extra toys and gadgets and wicking materials and accessories and shoes guaranteed to make you fly and all of that. Just don’t forget that all you really need to run is simply your body.

In the middle of a tough part, it’s easy to look only a few feet in front of you, staring at the road hoping it will end soon. Look up – you could be missing an amazing view that puts everything into perspective.

katzat technai

J56B9DYGAPFN

Being an ex-pat on 9/11

Being an American in a foreign country has given me the chance to see the USA from a different perspective and has actually taught me a lot about what it really means to be American. Being an American in Israel is especially enlightening, I think, because there are so many ways in which the two countries are similar, so many ways they are different, and so many ways each misunderstands the other.

I proudly voted for Obama right before I moved here - it was a time of great hope but also began what I see as a trend of division and ugliness. As soon as I moved, I found myself having to explain things I was not (and still am not) qualified to explain: the financial crisis, Obama's foreign policy and view of Israel, the opposition to the healthcare reform bill, the Tea Party, Sarah Palin. There are intricacies of the US political system that cannot be understood by a country of just under 8 million people with a Parliamentary system of government.

What I cannot explain is the recent trend of hate, ugliness and ignorance coming from the US. And I am no longer talking about what is going on in politics, although that is bad enough. It is horrifying to watch your fellow citizens display their ignorance about their President, about the political decisions they need to make when they go to vote, about what is science and what is religion, and about people different from them.

One of the great things about America is that we are allowed to express our opinions, protest, and be pissed off at our country. What scares me is the lack of factual information used to form these opinions. It seems that instead of wanting to hear both sides of the story in order to form an intelligent opinion, people just seek others who share their same views and sit around agreeing with each other and yelling at the other side in a big am-not-are-too playground battle. Most of the time, it seems these groups think the louder and more extreme they are, the more correct and righteous that makes them. And the one person who is holding his cool and trying to fix the mess he inherited is constantly under attack for not having solved these problems yesterday.

The news of the NYC mosque and the Quran-burning pastor has of course made it to this neck of the woods. I found myself at Shabbat dinner last night, surrounded by 60+-year-old native Israelis, almost in tears discussing these events. Imagine that, someone from the big Melting Pot trying to explain to people who have a daily threat from Arab Muslims how we can be so wrongly scared of Islam.


Again, I think it's amazing that America is a place where people can protest and express their opinions, no matter how controversial, uncomfortable, or extreme. What I think has really struck a nerve with me is not so much the actual act of burning the Quran, but on doing so on the memory of all those who perished on 9/11. Have we learned nothing in the past 9 years?! This is how people want to remember the dead? By letting ignorance and hatred penetrate our nation? What a departure from the sense of solidarity and patriotism that occurred in the aftermath of the attacks.

My hopes for America as we remember the horrific day 9 years ago and seek to honor those who died:

Hug your families and loved ones and be thankful each day that you have them.

Instead of shutting down and putting up a wall between you and someone with a different opinion, listen to them. Challenge yourself to understand their point of view because it will only make your opinion that much stronger.

Celebrate our differences. Learn from them. Be thankful you live in a country where these differences can even exist.


Continue to fight and be pissed off, but at least do so intelligently and effectively. Being ill-informed and loud doesn't make you right, just noisy.


Instead of burning the Quran, read it. Instead of shutting the doors of a mosque, enter one. Learn about the religion and realize the beauty that the great majority of followers see in it. At the same time, realize how it is extorted by extremists and the danger in equating the religion with terrorism. Islam =/= al Qaeda.

'Tis the season...

...for figs!

One of my favorite things about Israel (of course it would be food-related) is the abundance of fresh produce here. There are only a handful of fruits and veggies that the States does better - apples and corn, to name two.

Our landlord has tons of fruit trees around the yard. Unfortunately, this year's weather prevented the berry and cherry trees from producing much of anything. My disappointment at not being able to pluck fresh cherries from the backyard was compounded by the fact that the same weather affected all the country's orchards, thus driving up fruit prices at the market. It's hard to spend 12 shekels/kilo on peaches when last year they were half that.

But the figs! The figs survived! The figs are coming! Ron collected all those you see in the photo (minus the half-dozen we promptly devoured for breakfast). And they are so. Good. And I think this would explain the appearance of two fruit bats to our yard last night - last year we would sit outside after the sun went down and watch them fly around the yard, confused by Ron's squeaking bat-calls. Last night was the first night we saw any! All because of the figs!

Driving with the Devil (all 8 million of them)

On the day I turned 16, my mom (bless her heart) and I went to the DMV in Apple Valley, MN without an appointment, stood in line and hung out on the lawn of the testing center watching the hired pedestrians pacing around the side of the road. The days before I had diligently practiced parallel parking (I knew my weakness!) our old Chrysler minivan in our driveway, and then suffered a minor freakout when, for some reason that evades me now, there was a last-minute substitution for my dad's Toyota Celica. You'd think I would be thrilled, because Celica > Caravan any day, but I hadn't practiced! I didn't know where the hazard light button was!

So, it was with pounding heart I sat in the driver's seat, looking frantically for that little red triangle without being obvious as one of the largest men I have ever seen tried to squeeze himself into the bucket seat of the Celica. I bet he was wishing for the Caravan. He managed to get his bulk, plus his clipboard, safely buckled in, and we were off! At a screaming 20 mph! I even managed to parallel park, even though I was a bit far away from the curb. That, and "not inspecting the intersection before I entered on a green light" were my only infractions, so I had passed! Happy birthday to me!

Fast-forward 13 years later, and once again I found myself needing to pass a driving test. I had started the bureaucratic process of converting my US license to an Israeli one 6 months ago: getting an eye exam, detouring to renew my visa, getting permission from the Misrad haRishui (the Israeli DMV) to schedule a lesson and exam, scheduling said lesson and exam, going to the post office to pay fees. I had a contact of a driving instructor from fellow Ulpan students who had successfully changed their license. At 7:30 one Sunday morning, he met me outside of the University for my 20 minute behind-the-wheel lesson. I have been driving in Israel on my US license for over a year. There's nothing like learning by immersion, so this lesson was more a formality - "so you can't say you've never heard this before." I was shocked to hear him tell me to "stay on the right" and to "not enter the intersection on yellow" and to "give right-of-way to pedestrians" and to "always signal when turning" because I was certain these rules had disappeared from Israeli memory. "You're technically not supposed to use your horn except in case of emergency but no one enforces THAT rule." Ah, okay, that's better.

It took a month before I was scheduled for an exam. I was given an appointment at 8:20 am, which meant full-on Jerusalem rush-hour traffic. Joy. As I dropped Ron off at work, his one piece of advice? "Don't drive like an Israeli. You drive well, but don't drive like you normally do." Um, okay, thanks?! When I arrived to the testing center, I chatted with the other couple who shared my appointment. They were a nice young religious couple from the States, who were on their second try. They had horror stories about the woman who tested them the first time: she grabbed the steering wheel, she used her brakes, she screamed. Her goal in life, it seemed, was to fail drivers. This was far removed from most of the stories I had heard, where the instructor just wants to make sure you've driven before and have control of the vehicle.

Finally, our instructor arrived, and true to the apparent trend I have, he was thankful the instructor's car was a practical sedan and not a Celica. I sat in the backseat as the couple took their turns: 10 minutes or so of aimless driving around the Talpiyot section of Jerusalem. This meant many cars, many round-abouts, many small streets. Both of them seemed to be driving scared, but they were fine. It also was apparent that the instructor was not out to trick anyone. His vocabulary consisted of "right... left... pull over... change drivers." Then it was my turn, and we basically just had to return to the testing center. I was on my best behavior: no horn-honking, no quick moves to pull into the round-abouts, no maneuvers to get around buses. And then it came: I was on a two-way street that had only enough room for one car at a time. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a Brinks van came barreling down the street with no signs of slowing down. I had to slam on the breaks and pull my nose over. And I could have SWORN the tester used his brake. That's it, I thought, it's over. I failed. He used his brake.

Now, due to some unpleasant incidents in the past, you don't find out on the spot whether or not you pass the test. Instead, I had all day to convince myself I had failed the test. And I did a fine job of it: I had drawn out scenario after scenario of being disgraced. A failure! She can't drive, even well enough by Israeli standards!

At 4:36 I took a deep breath and called my instructor to find out my results. "Hi Erin, how are you?" "Fine... I think. You tell me."

Dum-dah-dummmm.

"Oh, there is no problem. You passed."

I actually felt the weight being lifted from my shoulders. Whew! So, after another trip to the Misrad haRishui, I am the proud holder of an Israeli license. Not as proud as I thought I'd be, because I'm only here on a visa so I have only a flimsy piece of paper that has to be renewed every six months. No pretty plastic card with a bad picture for me. At least I don't have to take the test again!

I almost died today. Or felt like it. In my head, parking a few km down the mountain to start my usual Saturday 20-24km run would mean my run would be flat.

The run was beautiful, looping around trails in the mountains outside Jerusalem, near Givat Yearim and Kesalon:

Problem was, it wasn't flat. Not even a little bit.

During all those yellow/orange/red sections - so, like, an hour+ - I was kicking myself for not making gazpacho yesterday. It would have tasted amazing post-run (although, let's face it, my running socks probably would have tasted amazing provided they were chilled first). I had stocked up on extra veggies at the market especially with this recipe in mind. I made it once before, and it's lovely. Granted, my recipe looks a bit different from the published recipe on Epicurious.com, in that I entirely ignore the quantities (do people really measure out vegetable amounts in recipes?!). Like most recipes, I tend to use them as guidelines, rather than hard-and-fast rules. I'm by no means a seasoned chef, but I know my way around the kitchen enough to feel confident tweaking recipes even if I've never followed them before - it's just a matter of knowing which things you can change or substitute (# of garlic cloves) and which things are best left alone (flour:sugar:egg ratios in baking). Of course, if a recipe involves yeast, the only thing I change is adding the instruction "hold your breath and pray."

Well, after a fantastic banana-pear-yogurt-milk-flax-peanut butter smoothie (thankfully I did not have to eat my socks), I set to work making the gazpacho I spent 7 brutal miles drooling over.

First things first:

Because cooking isn't cooking without a glass of wine.
Please note the still-wet bottles from my water belt. I have an amazing transition time in my running-drinking biathlon.


One of my favorite things about living in Israel is the plethora of amazing fresh produce. Cucumbers here have FLAVOR. Plus, you don't have to peel them, because their skins aren't made of wax. And, it's cheap - peppers right now are about 4 shekels/kilo, which works out to about $1/kilo, which works out to 45c/pound. So many conversions, so little time.

Ingredients all assembled, I set to chopping. And chopping. Like I said, I didn't measure anything, I just made sure I had room left in the bowl for the liquid ingredients and that all the colors were in a nice proportion. Final count: 2 peppers (one yellow, one orange), 3 tomatoes, 3 cucs, a handful of cilantro, 2 little red onions, one hot pepper, cumin, pepper, homemade chicken stock, the remainder of the bottle of white wine vinegar, a 3-second pour of olive oil, one liter tomato juice, juice from half a lemon. Plus, the mashed garlic-salt-egg concoction (with 3 cloves and sea salt) and breadcrumbs to thicken.

  Before:                                            

                      
After:

It's now merrily chilling, and unless we eat during the Germany-Argentina game, it will be dinner. Unless Ron gets to it first, I already had to keep his nose out of the bowl once!

Motivation

Well, obviously I haven't posted in a while. I think my "Israel is funny" angle just isn't motivating me enough to post regularly. I mean, if I'm supposed to be acclimating, I can't be fixated on the differences between here and the States, otherwise I won't be making a complete transition to my life here. So, I'm going to try a new angle - to just write about MY life here, simple as that. I hope to emphasize the "only in Israel" aspects of my experiences, but also use this blog as an outlet to vent, complain, brag, babble aimlessly, whatever. So, with that, I've got a post percolating in the ol' noggin that should make its way here in the next day or two :)

Another milestone passed:

I passed through airport security, the Delta ticket counter, the next round of airport security, and Duty Free - all in Hebrew :)

Headlines to die for.

The driving habits of Israelis could fill up an entire blog by itself. I would have enough material for a daily blog if I just recounted the traffic-law violations I saw on a daily basis. Scratch that, forget traffic-law violations, just common-sense violations would suffice. Turn signals? Turning left from the left-hand turn lane and not three lanes over? Driving right, passing left? Driving at a constant speed without randomly throwing on the emergency brake and coming to a complete stop in the middle of the road? Forget it, such things do not exist here.

Apparently, the powers that be have apparently caught on to the erratic driving tendencies of Israeli drivers. Right now there is an advertising campaign urging people not to do anything but drive while they're behind the wheel. On the radio, you'll hear a "common" situation, and until a couple of weeks ago, this would be followed by the sound of a crash, followed by a very solemn voice urging the driver not to do such things. The worst one was a father calling home to say goodnight to his young daughter before she went to bed, only to have her hear an accident and cry futilely "Abba... Abba?!" into the phone. The crash sound has recently disappeared, probably because of the cringe-factor.

I'll admit, some of these situations aren't specific to Israel. Especially the whole texting/talking on the cell phone bit. And I'm sure elsewhere, people fiddle with their GPS systems, their kids' movies, the radio, turn around to calm a screaming child, look at a map, or read the newspaper.

Wait... rewind... what?!

Yes, one "common" situation here in Israel is for people to catch up on their daily news whilst driving. I have seen it, from bus drivers of PUBLIC buses (Egged, are you listening? I don't see "certain death or bodily harm" listed under that "services" menu). I mean, are red lights seriously that boring? This in a country where the news comes on every radio station every hour - and some every half-hour. NOTHING has happened that will change your life since you last hear the news. Shocking, I know, but it's true.

Now, we have to work on a campaign to explain the difference between the gas pedal and the brake pedal.

If it's not water, it's not worth saving.

Daylight saving whaaaa?

In the States, for about three weeks before the clocks get sprung forward or felled back, every media source feels it's their sole duty to warn the public about the catastrophe that will occur if they fail to change their clocks before they go to bed. It's printed in calendars, like a major holiday.

Here, I was told exactly once, yesterday, by my BF's mother, that clocks get changed tonight. I have listened intently to the news, confident that I can understand enough Hebrew to discern whether or not someone is talking about a clock, time, losing an hour of sleep (yes, that phrase is important enough to me to understand), etc. Zip, zero, zip, efes. And yet, there's this really annoying ad for saving water that comes on about every ten seconds. Save the Kineret, people, we don't care what time it is!

Maybe the problem is that they don't schedule the clock-changing for Friday night - that is, the night before Shabbat. I remember, growing up, that the reminders for daylight saving time were printed in huge bold letters on the church bulletins the week before, so that come Sunday, no one would be an hour early and stand lonesome in the sanctuary with their own thoughts and tired kids, or even worse, be an hour late and completely miss what God had to say that week. If the synagogues had a stake in this whole time-saving business, perhaps we'd hear more about it so as to avoid any ill-timed prayers.

A sampling.

Some photos from my recent past.

From Life in Israel

Floods in the mountains outside J'lem. This is normally bone-dry, and I run here a lot.

From Life in Israe

Carmel mountains.

From Life in Israel

Orchids

From Life in Israel

Unknown flower

From Life in Israel

View from the Carmel

From Life in Israel

Judean hills

From Life in Israel

Oasis

From Life in Israel

Kennedy Memorial

From Life in Israel

Who's who?
(Ok, not taken in Israel, but in NYC's Chinatown. Never mind :)

Yeah? Well your mother doesn't make coffee like I do.

It's been a while. I stayed at home from work for the second day in a row today, and I'm to the point where I'm not feeling 100% healtyh but I'm bored outta my mind and restless. So, to the blog!

I'm not feeling particularly insightful today, so I'll just share a funny story that happened not long after I moved here. This incident pretty much explains the Israeli personality and the apparent contradiction between their aggressiveness and their consideration.

There is a monstrous new house going up next door to us. We spend a lot of time staring at this thing, making comments as to what we'd do better, and trying to understand why it's taking so damn long. This last mystery wasn't hard to solve, as there is evidence of workman presence approximately once a week, if that.

Well, about 7 months ago they were working more than today (yes, a year later, the thing still isn't finished). In fact, they would work until the sun would go down, and being as it was summer after the clocks changed, this meant about 8pm. You can imagine how thrilled we were to try to enjoy an al fresco dinner with the sounds of welding and crazy Israeli workman screaming at each other in the background. This wouldn't happen every day, but just often enough to drive us nuts. After a few times of this routine, DBF got fed up and started screaming at them over the fence. Now, this was before I could understand much Hebrew, so to my virgin ears the resulting exchange sounded like they were whipping out the "your mother" insults and threatening a Mossad-type assassination on one another. After a few minutes' screaming, DBF came storming into the house, and started making coffee.

Wait, what? You were just screaming at them, now you're having coffee with them?

Yeah, I told them I'd make them coffee if they'd stop now rather than later.

That's what you were screaming about?

Screaming? Who was screaming?

They spent the next 10 minutes chatting like they'd all known each other for years.

Lost in Transliteration

One would think names, brand names, and transliterated English words would stay the same from one language to another. I mean, we all pronounce 'Sarkozy' with a French accent, right? Right...?

Anyway, here is a short and incomplete list (sure to be expanded as time goes by) of funny Israeli pronunciations. This isn't just about putting the acCENT on the wrong syLLAble, but complete eff-ups of the words. First, I will list the English word, followed by the Israeli equivalent, and some hopefully witty comment about the latter.

Lauper (as in, Cindi): Laufer. This has an explanation, as the letter פ for P and F sounds is the same, and there are rules about when to use it as such, but c'mon! It's her name. Girls just wanna have pun? This country can handle פלפל = falafel without any p/f switches, which clearly explains their priorities.

Boeing: Boing. Talk about the mile high club.

Bowling: Bow-eling. There is a funny dipthong on this word that makes this game seem like it has drastic effects on your GI tract.

Lincoln (as in, Abraham): Lin-co-len. They spell his name with the Hebrew letter lamed (ל) in the middle, thus ensuring that every Israeli pronounces his name with a solid three syllables and ignoring every English grammar law that explain silent letters.

Ech omrim "flatter your body" b'Ivrit?

Today was one of many-of-late abnormally lovely January Saturdays in Israel (how many qualifiers can I put in one sentence?) HaHaver and I started our morning with a run along the sea from Jaffo to the Tel Aviv harbor and back. We then had a great breakfast in Jaffo, and then headed to one of the many restaurant-bars along the sea just north of Jaffo for a beer in the sun before heading back to the J'lem mountains.

Guys, the people-watching in this country is amazing, especially in Tel Aviv and especially on the sea. There is such an amazing mix of locals and tourists, from all religions and classes and backgrounds. I remember being young and sitting in a mall or airport with my mom, and we would make up stories about the people walking by, so I know how to people-watch. Today, I had the most fun observing the fashion that paraded before me. It was a nice day, but it's still January, so people aren't exactly in beach attire. (For the most part). So it's that weird it's-nice-out-but-still-winter-so-I'll-just-wear-a-scarf-with-my-flipflops sort of a day.

I don't pretend to be incredibly fashion-forward, but I do have a fashion philosophy: clothes should make you look good. Why wear something if it makes you look terrible? Apparently, this philosophy has not made it to this country. Stacy and Clinton would have an absolute field day with the 30+ females here. Or maybe even they would throw their hands up in exasperation.

"I'm terribly sorry, but there's nothing we can do for you unless you
hand over the Bedazzler."

What do I mean? Well, most 18-25 year old are incredibly good-looking and trendy - right now it's kind of a blend of hipster and 80s. Leggings and Converse sneakers are everywhere. If you're under 25, gorgeous and thin, you could wear a potato sack and look good, but I also won't feel visually offended if you wear leggings as pants and a style of shoe I begged my parents for when I was 10. (Punky Brewster hot pink hi-tops, baby).

The problem is, these fashions are also seen on 40 year olds with more than a few extra pounds on them. NOT FLATTERING, I don't CARE how "in style" something is. It's like they saw something on a 50-kilo model, bought it in the same size, squeezed into it, and then went out of the house without one backward glance into a mirror. I know, I know, it happens everywhere, but here for some reason it is just so apparent - maybe because in general Israeli women truly are gorgeous and you find yourself pitying the woman who has such POTENTIAL to look SO amazing. Combine this with the obsession with sequins and nonsensical English t-shirts, and you have yourself a fashion crisis, my friends. I found myself wishing for a camera to document some of the atrocities I saw today, but I would have run out of memory on my zillion GB memory chip.

Only in Israel: the Runner's Installment

Last Thursday, I participated in the Beit Shean Half Marathon. This wasn't the official name of the race, but it's what everyone referred to it as, because the largest town along the course is Beit Shean. All I will remember of this (supposedly) lovely village are: 1-the only two hills of the entire course and 2-the post-race feeding frenzy at their one and only proper restaurant.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. This was my second race in Israel - the first being a 10K in Ashdod - and I found myself quite amused with several differences between US running races and those here, as well with many "only in Israel" moments. The running culture here in Israel isn't quite as "mainstream" as it is back in the US, especially in NYC. This is fun, in a lot of ways, because it brings a pretty intense energy. It also means that a 10% showing by women is huge. You'd think that this would better my chances of placing, but remember there are tons of Ethiopian immigrants here. And turns out, they're fast...

The fastest way to Beit Shean from Jerusalem is through the West Bank. So, with four of us in the car, we took off before 7 for the 1.5 hour drive. One of the passengers had lobbied for an earlier departing time, saying "there are over 1500 runners! We have to be there early!" for the 9:30 starting gun. After dozens of 5ks in NYC that pulled at least 4000 people, this comment made me giggle. The road from Jerusalem starts dropping towards the Dead Sea, before we turn north. The terrain is desert-desert-desert with a few agricultural settlements - most notably Jericho - and suddenly, it's green. This change of terrain coincides almost precisely with the border crossing, giving the differences between the Palestinian and Israeli landscapes even a more drastic appearance.

With four runners, all doing their best to hydrate, the obvious happens: nature calls. Which brings me to Israeli Experience #1: who needs a gas station when a ditch will do? Every time I've driven outside of a center of a city in this country, I have seen a car pulled over on the side of the road, with the driver doing his business in front of god and everyone. Usually this happens when the sign for the nearest gas station is well within view. We at least had the excuse that there were no gas stations for our four-man pit stop. It's a little trickier for yours truly, but mid-squat I started laughing at our sight: a car running on the side of the road, three men turned with their backs to the road and to each other, and some lady squatting, mooning the West Bank.

#2: the girl at the border-crossing knew all about the race and wished us good luck.

The race started and finished at a park near a spring-fed creek. The place was a balagan in every sense of the word. We did a creative left turn to enter an annexed parking lot. Which brings me to Israeli Experience #3: find the closest parking spot even if you stand in a line to get there. We were out of the car and on our way past the rows of cars looking for a spot 10m closer before others had even turned into the parking lot.

Israeli Experience #4 is uniquely running-related: the bib pick-up. Maybe it's because the latest races I've done are marathons and much bigger, but there was no ID check, no formal process. First, find your name on the sheet which will have your number next to it. This was not sent out before hand, so people were fighting trying to find their name. Then, go to the table according to your number, tell them what it is, get a b'hatslecha and on your way.

#5: the pre-race. Everyone knows everyone. My boyfriend ran into 3 people he knows, though didn't know they were running. The entire crowd was separated by about three hugs. Really, awesome.

#6: the start. There is a big yellow line on the road. People lined up 10 meters in front of it. The race started 10 minutes late because that was how long it took the guy on the megaphone to tell everyone: "haverei. The race will not start until everyone is in place. Move to the yellow line." Only the front row of people would attempt to move back, then have to stop. Rinse. Repeat.

#7: the start, part 2. There is no "line up according to pace." It is a big free-for-all. Israelis are good at free-for-alls. I love needing my elbows to pass the 7-min/km dudes.

#8: there was a road kill victim in the middle of the road near the start. "Eh, it's just a cat, they're everywhere, ain baiya."

#9: the one and only rule I was aware of was that bikes or escorts of any kind were strictly forbidden along the course. Did this prevent them? Of course not. But, true to Israeli fashion, when someone would accept contraband refreshment from their bike-riding spouse, they would take a swing and immediately offer the bottle to the runners in their vicinity.

#10: the groups of military units running together. At least they didn't have their guns with them.

#11: The guy sitting in the middle of the road in his running car, smoking a cigarette out his window, as we were forced to detour around him less than 500m from the finish line. Yoffi. At least I think he has a few good dents in his hood...

#12: The finish. I've never had so many people - strangers - approach me after a race, seeing how I did, wanting to compare notes. Thankfully, running with a group has taught me enough running-related Hebrew that I could manage to keep up!

#13: The Sachne! The spring-fed creek is a great temperature all year round, so everyone jumps in, in their running clothes, at the end of the race. We were 20m away from the Israeli marathon champion, who looked... normal.

#14: Beit Shean has one restaurant. It's your typical Israeli bbq restaurant: they pile the tables full of salads, pickles, chumus and laffe so that you eat till you're stuffed and then they make you order meat. Our group made reservations, so of course when we entered the restaurant, it was full. Restaurants in small towns do not understand the concept of reservation when it means turning away groups of 10. Starving, giving up hope, wouldn't you know it: the door opens, and the manager is lugging inside a huge plastic table with chairs from the outside. A little Windex and a cheap paper tablecloth, and we're elbow-deep in chumus and Goldstar. They might not understand reservations, but they understand the word achi.

Oh, and I ran pretty well too: 1:37.44, 8th woman in the <35 age group!

You see what I'm up against?

On Facebook, I'm a member of the "Anglos in Israel" group. They so nicely emailed the group with an opportunity to participate with JCorps in volunteer activities. Curious, I mosied on over to their FB page. Does anyone see anything wrong with this disclaimer?

"We are non-religious, non-denominational, and 100% free. We are open to all unmarried Jews aged 18-30."

To which denomination within the Jewish religion are they referring? Jews for Jesus??

Would you like some water with your soap?

I used to make fun of my Israeli boyfriend when he would wash the dishes in my Manhattan apartment. He would use about half the bottle of liquid Dawn, lather every item up with suds and put them all over the limited counter space and stovetop, and only THEN turn on the water to rinse everything. It was fun to watch - there really was soap everywhere, and after he wiped up the mess, my counters and stove were usually nice and clean. I had never seen anyone use such a skewed ratio of soap:water before. And what was with the need to soap everything and then rinse? Do Israeli siblings not fight over the wash/rinse/dry duties in the dish washing assembly lines?

I just found myself washing dishes like an Israeli. At least I'm in Israel, where the countertops are made of tile and are flush with the sink, so you just need to push the soap back into the sink when you're done. And I get it now! It's to save water! If you don't soap underneath the running flow of water a la Americans, you use less. Which means you are saving the Kinneret! What a good Israeli! Or, because you want to use the water for other necessary things, like watering the brown lawn on the morning of a 40*C day. Brilliant!

"Hey! Don't rinse yet! I haven't used up all the soap!"